Capsule Reviews: The Day He Arrives, Bad 25, The Sessions

The Day He Arrives (Hong Sang-soo, 2012)

Hong Sang-soo’s The Day He Arrives begins with a man walking down a street and taking a left. It ends with him returning to that street and going right. This mirroring movement captures the film, so reflective that even the lead actor’s name, Yoo Jun-sang, is spat back out as the character Yoo Seong-jun, an ex-filmmaker who returns to Seoul to catch up with friends, pitifully attempt to rekindle an old flame, and idly philosophize. Hong’s subtle but pristine compositions and varied repetitions tease out character beliefs, hypocrisies and longings as Seong-jun’s rants against the lies of fate that cinema propounds even as he chases a waitress solely for resembling his ex. The repetitions also cinematize the life he feels is so separate from the artifice of movies, the distorted sense of time starting over until Seong-jun “gets it right” recalling a more poetic Groundhog Day. But it’s that poetry that makes all the differences, making even Hong’s cheeky (sometimes outright funny) reflexive details so human that they work not only as critical observations but affecting conduits for the character’s own feelings. Grade: A

When the Levees Broke: A Requiem in Four Acts (Spike Lee, 2006)

I have not seen Spike Lee's When the Levees Broke in five years, and in that time I had not only forgotten what a superb documentary it is, but also how profoundly I was affected by Hurricane Katrina. Rage and sorrow run through Lee's film, their purest outlet in his filmography since Do the Right Thing. But Lee also focuses his emotional response to the gargantuan blunder by interviewing such a wide variety of people that blame is cross-examined, shifted around, and finally rendered both unclear and sharply honed. One of Lee's finest works, if not his best.

My full review is up now at Spectrum Culture.

25th Hour (Spike Lee, 2002)

I continue to love Spike Lee's 25th Hour, one of his most shamelessly white elephant features (topped only by Miracle at St. Anna and, more positively, Malcolm X) but also one of his most affecting. Buoyed by a stellar cast, 25th Hour manages to walk its tightrope between an intimate portrayal of the crippling fear of consequence and a vaster portrait of its application to the September 11 attacks. The final, desperate fantasy alone rates among the best and most bravura work Lee has ever done.

My full review is up at Spectrum Culture.

25th Hour (Spike Lee, 2002)

The aftermath of the September 11 attacks affecting cinema subtly at first, most noticeably the digital removal of the Twin Towers in films then in production (Spider-Man, etc.). But all eyes were on the filmmakers from New York, directors who'd collectively defined the city cinematically. Woody Allen, who gave an impassioned speech at the following Oscars concerning the need for filmmakers to continue working in the city, never touched upon 9/11 as a subject in his subsequent films, more concerned with the cosmic tragedy of mankind to focus on any one event. Martin Scorsese responded with a sprawling tribute to his beloved hometown in the only way he knew how: by charting its history of crime. And so, fittingly, the task of directly commenting on the attacks fell on that most dogged and irascible of NY directors: Spike Lee, a filmmaker so gifted and visceral that even his weakest efforts are worth watching.

25th Hour, it's safe to say, is not one of his weakest efforts. Taken in context of the rest of his career, it stands out as a highlight of a career peppered with a handful of modern classics. Under his fiery hand and David Benioff's adaptation of his own novel, Benioff's original story of social strata in New York City becomes a commentary on the city's present and the choices it has for its future in the wake of 9/11.

In the opening scene, Monty (Edward Norton), a swaggering thug, and his Russian compatriot stop on the way to an assignment from their crime bosses when they stumble upon an abandoned, severely wounded dog, likely a fighting hound who lost someone money. Monty approaches to put the poor beast out of its misery, but the dog comes alive and snaps viciously, impressing the man. The dog is the first of many symbols of post-9/11 New Yorkers, partially buried in the trash, bruised and bloody, but dammit he's still alive and as temperamental as ever.

Lee then cuts to the opening credits, played over shots of the Tribute in Light at Ground Zero, then resumes the film four years later, only a few months after the terrorist attacks. The intervening years have not been kind to Monty: we learn that he dealt drugs for his bosses until cops "touched" him. Feds show up at his apartment and find bags of money and drugs (the DEA agent heading the investigation is played by Isiah Whitlock, Jr., who ports over his elongated pronunciation of "sheeeeeeit" from She Hate Me, the same he would later take to The Wire, for a perfect enunciation of just how screwed Monty is).

Facing seven years in prison, Monty looks for one last night of fun with his pals and girlfriend. Norton's performance rates among his finest: the cocksure, brash thug in the first scene morphs in the sudden temporal leap into a withdrawn, doomed individual, barely capable of masking his terror behind a stoic cool. His world's been turned upside-down, and even the little things chip away at him: he heads to his old high school to visit his friend Jacob (Philip Seymour Hoffman), who teaches there, and while he waits he brags about his old basketball skills to another teacher. When he mentions that he holds the school's all-time assist record, the teacher casually informs him that a student beat it last year. When things go wrong.

Jacob and Monty's other friend, Wall Street trader Frank (Barry Pepper) portray the class differences of Benioff's original novel and how the characters, for their vastly different social standing, all have a impressive amount of money: Jacob was born into wealth but feels embarrassed by being a man in his 30s with a trust fund; Frank is entrusted with tens of millions of dollars and tasked to make those tens into hundreds; and lowly Monty earns his opulent lifestyle through selling bricks of heroin. In that sense, they're all the same, but they rag on each other for their backgrounds: Frank insults Jake's lack of "true wealth" and uses that to justify his made-up ratings scale of a man's prospects of finding a woman in New York, though Jake retorts by noting that Frank eats with his fingers and is just generally forceful. At several intervals, Frank rages against the path Monty chose, ranting that his oldest friend drives in a car "paid for by the misery of other people," yet we met Frank investing money according to how he believed the unemployment figures would affect stock numbers.

All three men serve as representatives of some aspect of post-9/11 New York life: Jake, the intellectual, hides in the ivory tower of his preppy high school; Frank profits from the unemployment figures in the financial uncertainty in the wake of the attack, and he even lives in an apartment overlooking Ground Zero; Monty, of course, comes the closest to reflecting the "average" New Yorker. Obviously, the average New Yorker is not a criminal living on drug money, but of the three he maintains the closest ties to a working middle class background. His father (the always entertaining Brian Cox), owns a bar where he cheers the Yankees with all the firefighters and other hardworking fellas. Where Frank and Jake enjoy relatively stable life trajectories, Monty, the man on the streets, faces a dismal future and doesn't know what to do.

Of course, lest we define 25th Hour as one big symbol of New York without the World Trade Center, it's important to note that the film has its own narrative. Its characters want instant gratification in life, Frank and Monty through their get-rich-quick professions (one illegal, the other the backbone of our economic self-perception) and Jake through hisephebophiliac crush on one of his students (Anna Paquin, oddly hypnotic even before taking into account the ethereal manner in which Lee shoots her). In a way, 25th Hour is a coming-of-age tale, about three immature, emotionally retarded men -- Jake's trust fund wealth suggests a much younger man still under his parents' care, Frank escaped from the Irish neighborhood but now fervently talks of opening a bar with Monty when he leaves prison, and Monty is going to prison essentially for being a glorified courier. By the film's end, each must confront his hangups and decide whether to continue on his current life track.

To say that Lee's direction is exemplary is almost an insult to his talents as a filmmaker. I always enjoy his ability to inject his film school knowledge into such immediate character studies; among other, subtler references in Do the Right Thing was an open nod to The Night of the Hunter, and the Cool Hand Luke poster in Monty's flat smacks of a modern update of Michel's idolization of Bogey in Breathless. The film's centerpiece, set in a swanky club where Monty and co. spend his last night of freedom, is a dramedic masterpiece where the fast-paced editing of the preceding scenes morphs into dreamlike state of floating characters, blinding color schemes and slow trance music. Lee uses the sequence to get to the root of the characters' hangups, from the amusing black comedy of Jake struggling with his infatuation with student Mary (Monty brought her in with the gang) to more serious development between Frank and Monty. The question of who sold Monty out drives the tension of the sequence, and the reveal of his Judas allows him a moment to prove that he's outgrown the brutish behavior that got him pinched, though by turning his back on his Russian bosses' punishment of the rat he demonstrates that he's not quite mature yet.

The sequence and the resultant conclusion brilliantly draw the demons out of the characters and reveal the depths of their immaturity: Frank makes those drunken promises about opening a bar and assures Monty that he'll be there when his buddy's done with his sentence, but the boisterous tough guy balks when Monty begs him to rough him up to avoid entering prison with his handsome looks attracting the attention of other inmates. Jake exhibits self-control and obvious discomfort with his urges toward Mary, but all he needs is a bit of alcohol to tear down the barriers he built for himself.

Ironically, the most mature character, Monty's girlfriend Naturelle (Rosario Dawson), is the youngest. We see the couple meet in a flashback, when Naturelle was 18 and Monty was "old enough to have to ask" about her age. She's a kind and supportive soul, proud of her heritage where all three of the men try to bury theirs. Everyone -- detectives, the Russians, even Frank -- suggests to Monty that she sold him out to the cops, but any one scene with her convinces us that she would never have done such a thing. Perhaps that drains the tension, but Lee deftly adapts by centering the suspense on whom Monty thinks ratted.

Lee intertwines the maturation arcs of these characters with his 9/11 commentary at the end. Monty forces Frank to at last back up his empty promises with action, and the emotional fallout signals to the trader that he's not the superior creature he envisions himself. Jake must look after Doyle, the dog Monty rescued and that initial symbol of New York, and the responsibility of caring for the dog (and the avenue it provides for chatting to ladies of a more appropriate age) suggests healthy relationships in his future. On the way to prison

Responsibility is the entire crux of the film. Monty eats a final meal with his father -- in a hole-in-the-wall place with memorials to the firefighters who lost their lives on September 11, no less -- who blames himself for Monty's transgressions because of his alcoholism after Monty's mother died. He accepts responsibility for his son's failure, something that is not actually his fault (though Monty points out when James said that the boy could have been a lawyer that his criminal activities kept dad out of debt, revealing that some blame indeed does fall on James' shoulders). This scene leads to the most memorable part of the film, in which Monty heads into the restaurant's bathroom and launches into an impromptu rant, chewing out the various races and ethnicities of the city in a racist tirade to match the one in Do the Right Thing. Some of his attacks gain traction, such as the vicious tongue lashings he gives to Osama, Catholic pedophiles and CEOs who defraud investors and employees. After he insults everyone, including the other individual characters, he finally turns on himself: " No," he reprimands himself, "fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all, and you threw it away."

Naturally, New Yorkers hold no share of the blame for the terrorist attacks, but they, and all Americans, had a responsibility to respond to them in a certain manner. Monty's freewheeling rant directs his anger in all directions, not unlike the xenophobia felt in the wake of the attacks. He realizes that his hatred is misguided, though, when he finally turns his rage inward and sees that he's only really made at himself. Lee mirrors that scene at the end, when Monty, on his way to Otisville , passes a genteel, calmly edited version of the faces who flashed on the screen as targets of his earlier diatribe. They all smile and seem to wish him well, showing that we really are in all this together. Compare this image of beauty and unity, lacking any cynicism, to all the empty proclamations made by pundits and politicians nominally wishing to go back to that sense of togetherness in the wake of the attacks; Glenn Beck's 9/12 malarkey was nothing more than the first part of Monty's rant, a promotion of anarchic racism, not unity for the mutual benefit of members of society. Lee would later find much to hate about the resulting management of the attacks and the path the Bush administration took (for those who haven't seen his Katrina documentary When the Levees Broke, flip over to Amazon and order it. Then come back and thank me), but 25th Hour, made so soon after the attacks, is one of the most hopeful responses to the tragedy.*

That scene of Monty riding to prison brings the film's central theme of responsibility to a head. James offers to hang a left at the George Washington Bridge and ride his son to freedom. In an alternate vision that comes straight out of Scorsese's The Last Temptation of Christ, James speaks over his imagined rescue of his son, detailing how he'd drive Monty across this great land to start a new life, that maybe Naturelle could move out to wherever he goes after police attention lessens after a few years. Cox's monologue is beautiful and pained, almost pleading his son to agree to the plan, but when Lee cuts back to reality they've already passed the bridge. Monty, symbol of the average New Yorker and post-9/11 America in general, had two self-destructive options: lose himself in hatred, as he did in the bathroom scene, or run and hide from his problems, forced to live a life -- break out your plastic flags, everyone -- devoid of personal freedom or dignity. Instead, he chooses to face his future, without cowardice but also without hatred and a lack of contemplation. Even if the country did not follow in his footsteps, 25th Hour remains a hopeful, beautiful portrait of our potential to overcome personal and national tragedy, in no way invalidated by real-life responses.



*It's fitting that the other genuinely hopeful, non-manipulative response to the tragedy, Bruce Springsteen's The Rising, lends one of its tracks to the film.

Miracle at St. Anna

Spike Lee has enjoyed a nice comeback over the last few years. “25th Hour” was one of the finest meditations of the mind set of New Yorkers post-9/11, and “Inside Man” was an unlikely box office hit. The success of the latter gave the director — who’d been making films for two decades at the time — an avenue into larger budget Hollywood productions. Unfortunately, the first result of this late career upswing, “Miracle at St. Anna,” is a failure. But what a noble failure it is.

The film focuses on four soldiers from the 92nd Infantry Division “Buffalo Soldiers,” an all-black division, who find themselves deep behind enemy lines and in charge of a wounded Italian boy named Angelo. The four hole up in an Italian village while they try to contact their white division commander, a racist fool who set this all into motion when he failed to call in artillery on the right coordinates because he didn’t listen to his black troops. The longer the group stays, the higher the risk of Nazi discovery.

Had Lee stuck to this plot, this might have been a fine addition to WWII cinema, but “Miracle” gets bogged down in numerous subplots. As the group settle into the village, Stamps (Derek Luke) and Bishop (Michael Ealy) vie for the affections of the town’s resident beautiful woman/English speaker Renata (Valentina Cervi). The Italian boy sparks up a friendship with Train (Omar Benson Miller), a deeply religious, dull-witted soldier who may or may not be mentally challenged. He in turn carries around a sculpted head he found in Florence that he believes gives him good luck. Okey-dokey.

As the film progresses, it and the boy Angelo are responsible for events beyond the explanation of reason. These subplots slowly take over the film, diverting attention away from honoring these brave men. Bishop and Stamps argue over Renata even as Nazi troops descend upon them. Train and the boy are simply annoying, and it makes no sense that soldiers would let a kid continually tag along with them; the explanation given for such a monumental suspension of disbelief is something along the lines of “well, he likes us.”

Worst of all is that the film introduces a series of exponentially more baffling inconsistencies and implausibilities. It’s book-ended by a look at an aged Hector (played in flashback by Laz Alonso) who opens the film with a murder that opens the floodgate of memories. Why then, if this is a flashback, are we at all privy to any meetings between Nazi officers, or Italian freedom fighters, or even between the white commanders of the 92nd Infantry? This inattention to detail makes "Saving Private Ryan's" framing device look plausible. It’s just bad writing, regardless if Lee made it up or it’s in the novel on which the film is based.

Despite the flaws, there are moments of beauty, even genius to be found here. When the soldiers remove themselves from their respective side stories and interact, they offer up classic Lee dialogue: frank, weary, even funny talk about racism. Then the film makes a big diversion to flash back to the four just before deployment, when they have a run-in with a local ice-cream vendor who refuses to serve the men, even though he happily served a group of German detainees. It’s a total aside, but it speaks volumes about the racist treatment even of heroes. Lee also brings an astonishing new level of technique to his directing. AND THEN it goes too far. The soldiers are so incensed that they come back into the shop sporting rifles. Am I seriously supposed to believe that these men wouldn't have been immediately court-martialed and jailed in Leavenworth, if not outright killed?

The battle scenes are here are just as memorable as those in “Saving Private Ryan,” and it’s hard to imagine the creator of “School Daze” and “Mo’ Better Blues” displaying such an epic scope. But by the end of it all, the number of arbitrary, logic-evading “miracles” is infuriating, and it greatly detracts from the film.

When Lee chose this project, he issued a statement that said “there’s really been a bad job of documenting the contribution African-Americans made to this country.” He’s absolutely right. Then why didn’t he do a good one, either? Had he cut out the love-triangle, the pointless miracles, the characters of Train and Angelo, and the “present day” beginning and conclusion, he’d have made a taut, moving war drama that could have doubled as great popcorn entertainment and a thoughtful look at a criminally-neglected part of World War II. Instead, we got a bloated, strung together soap opera with machine guns. Win some, lose some.

Top Five Disappointments of 2008

Every year there is a slew of bad films. The latest entry in the Saw franchise. Whatever Seltzer and Friedberg cooked up just by watching trailers. The new Kirk Cameron movie. All guaranteed bad. But what about the movies that promise something more? That hook you and draw you in until you can't possibly do anything but love it... only to thoroughly shortchange you. Isn't it the worst feeling in the world to line up for a sequel to a movie you loved, or the new film from one of your favorite directors, only to walk out hating it? Well, I'm here to open those barely healed wounds and bleed my nerdy bile anew for the films that betrayed me this year (some spoilers):

5. Be Kind Rewind

You have now seen the only enjoyable moment of the film. You're welcome.

Granted, I didn't expect too much from this based on the premise (anyone remember the Blockbleester sketch from The Amanda Show?), and as much as I enjoy Jack Black (yeah, you heard me, go watch High Fidelity or Tropic Thunder if you don't agree) he and Mos Def didn't exactly sell me. But when I saw that Michel Gondry (Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Science of Sleep) was directing, I couldn't help but get excited. However, when I sat down to watch my rented DVD (yeah, I never did get excited enough to go to a theater for it), I was crushed: all the scenes from the trailer that made the movie look somewhat promising? Those clips were the only good parts of the goddamn movie. The rest was a clichéd story about saving the little store that no one likes because The Man wants to tear it down.

As much as I hate the retail giant system (I firmly believe that every Wal-Mart is a Hellmouth), sometimes old crap needs to be torn down. And then the FBI tries to bust the guys for copyright violation for making their own versions (even though I'm pretty sure parody is allowed in the Copyright Act of 1975), but relents when the whole town comes together to watch a film about a random jazzbo that Danny Glover won't shut up about. You know, because togetherness is so rare these days. The story doesn't allow Gondry to get up to his usual tricks, and he just costs through this. Here's hoping he rebounds nicely.

4. Quantum of Solace

"I'm saving the most elaborate torture for my agent."

I remember growing to loathe the Bond franchise right about the time I hit 16 (in 2005). Funny, considering that teenagers (or grown men who never aged mentally past 16) are Bond's primary audience. But I found his increasingly self-parodying, misogynistic formula tiring. Imagine my surprise then, when Casino Royale hit the scene. Mixing a liberal dash of Bourne into a back-to-basics Bond, it was an absolute blast that edged Bond in the direction of realism whilst still remaining a pure romp. It also gave us to date the only well-rounded female character of the series. Then came Quantum of Solace, which demonstrates the classic Hollwood sequels mantra "If it ain't broke, screw it up."

Whereas CR operated in a more realistic world and remained fun, Quantum decided to push things over the edge into the dreaded realm of "Paul Haggis' Real World. PHRW is a recent epidemic that has turned many a potentially fun and/or deep film into a exaggerated, self-aggrandizing dungheap that loves to scribble the words "GRITTY REALISM" all over the place without ever showing anything remotely realistic. It tries to take on real world issues (the environment, the shadiness of businesses), which is so un-Bond that even I, someone who has no love for the franchise, must call foul. Amalric tries his best, but in many ways he's too talented to be a Bond villain; if I want nuance I'll watch something besides the biggest man-child fantasy in cinematic history. Even Jonathan Pryce set aside his chops to drool and twirl his imaginary moustache over the prospects of controlling the media. The Bond here can't decide if he wants to be the fun old Bond of yore or Agent Serious Business, and the film never finds a footing because of it. Oh, and we won't even talk about the direction.

3. Miracle at St. Anna

Clockwise from left: Bashful, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, and Asshat

To say that Spike Lee is a polarizing figure is like saying the sun is bright or orgasms feel good, but I think he's one of the most talented filmmakers of his generation. He (quite rightly) complained that there were no films being made about the contribution of blacks to the war effort in World War II by (quite wrongly) taking it out on Clint Eastwood. Then he puts his money where his big mouth is and made Miracle at St. Anna, which comes so close to being a great war movie (and the last thing in the world you'd think could be made by the maker of Crooklyn) that to see it play up every stereotype in the book AND add some ridiculous deus ex marble head that saves the day is just heartbreaking.

Race is a hard subject to get right on film and even Lee, who is the only person of the last 20 years to realistically portray, is uneven in his successes. But Miracle is an all new low; it stereotypes blacks, whites, Italians, Germans without ever examining and breaking down those stereotypes like Lee does in his best films. The flashback scene in the ice cream parlor is ridiculous: do you honestly think that a squad of black soldiers who drew their guns on a white American shopowner would not be immediately court-martialed and probably lynched? Miracle works neither as a war movie (because of that effing miracle head) nor a comment on race relations.

2. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

"I can only hope that this fridge can protect me from the seismic force of everyone's childhood shattering."

OK, I knew it was going to suck. As heavily involved as Lucas was to the creative process (as opposed to just letting him add the explosions in in post-production), it couldn't have possibly been great. What I didn't know is that it was going to completely destroy one of the most iconic action heroes in film history. Look, I'm not stupid; I know damn well that Spielberg would never kill the character, but when you watch Raiders you fear for Indy. Here, well we all know about the fridge. That fridge scene almost made me leave the theater. Action films must contain a certain amount of suspense; yes, the hero will live 99.9999999999% of the time, but you need to make us feel for at least a moment that he or she could snuff it. When Harrison Ford just sort of stumbles out of his bomb shelter-to-go there's no reason to stay tuned.

But it gets worse. Cate Blanchett and John Hurt, two magnificent actors, are forcced into these one-note roles that are excruciating in their blandness while Shia LaBeouf, a fun enough up-and-comer with a pretty good wit about him, has nothing to do. And of course, there's the aliens. In a way, it makes sense, but only if you think about it from the point of view of an emotionally stunted grown up who still has train sets and still puts little action figures on the rails and runs them over. In other words, it's great if you're George Lucas.



And the number one biggest letdown of the year for me waaaassss:



1. Cloverfield

"I heard you liek Mudkips."

I know, a lot of people love it. And it's certainly not the worst film on my list (Indy 4, remember?), but I believed in this. For months I was caught up in the JJ Abrams hype and I'm not big on the man. Sure, out of the few episodes I've seen I liked Alias, and Mission Impossible III was the only good installment of the franchise (mainly thanks to Phillip Seymour Hoffman), but Abrams strikes me as the sort of person more concerned with getting people excited than delivering on the promises he makes. But that didn't matter, cause this was going to be great. Even when my friends got sick of the hype, I was there waving the Clovy flag. I popped into the theater the Saturday after it came out and...I hated it.

Not only was it achingly predictable, not only was it completely devoid of tension, but the characters were completely unrealistic. I could maybe buy a dude running into Ground Zero while it's still being torn up to save his not-girlfriend who he slept with once and suddenly he like, totally loves her, but there is no way on God's green Earth that his friends would follow him. Even as they drop one by one, they stick by their dumbass frat boy buddy because someone has to carry the camera. And that's the downfall of these first-person stories; why would I believe that someone would continue to carry a camera (and keep holding the thing up) while he's running from a monster and its weird killer lice. Yeah, I don't care that he keeps saying he's filming so "the people can know what happened;" you don't shove a camera in your friend's face or sit across from him and zoom into his face to see the tears as he mourns the death of a loved one to document a monster rampage. And when they do find his special lady friend, she has sustained an injury that would surely kill her, only for her to get up and, with the power of love, run just as fast as the uninjured people. It's insane.

I can hear the Cloverfans now: "Well, eccuuuuuussse meeeee, Mr. Hard-to-Please. I'm sorry that you had to suspend disbelief for a MONSTER movie." Yes, it is a monster movie, but that does not excuse the filmmakers from the responsibility of making your human characters act like actual humans. They are cookie-cutter yuppie trash who have no real personalities to win us over. Hud is the guy who cracks unfunny jokes, Rob is so focused on saving Beth that he stops only to squirt a few tears for the friends and family he loses along the way before they all suck it up and keep going for no reason, and Marlena is the person who knows none of them and tags along, and I won't go any further into that for my own sanity. The monster is ridiculous too; again, I know it's a monster film, but why would you make a creature that has lived in the seas for thousands of years a creature clearly designed to live on land (and it's NOT an alien. If you think it is you're not enough of a fan to read what Abrams has to say on it)? Ultimately Drew Goddard's weak script ensures that you want the characters to be offed, but you can't root for the monster either because it's a background figure. This rivals Spider-Man 3 as the biggest cinematic letdown of my life (the prequels are excluded from the competition).




Well, there you have it: the five films that stuck with me far more than the cream of the crap. I was let down by a few other movies this year, but none came close to the disappointment I had with these.

Lakeview Terrace

In 1989, Spike Lee made “Do The Right Thing,” a frank, witty, yet ultimately sad and shocking portrait of racial tensions in New York City. So masterful was the film that any subsequent depiction of racism has inevitably been compared to it. This may seem unfair, but given how many movies use it as a guideline it’s somewhat appropriate. Such is the case with this initially promising thriller, which steals a number of devices from Lee’s opus but delivers a clunky, stereotypical product.

Starring Samuel L. Jackson and Patrick Wilson, “Lakeview Terrace” pits an interracial couple, Chris and Lisa (played by Wilson and Kerry Washington), against their police officer neighbor, Abel Turner (Jackson). Chris and Lisa move in next door, and Abel wastes no time making them feel unwelcome. Turner is every bit Hollywood’s idea of the non-stereotypical “urban” black man: he prays every morning, hates rap, and ensures that his children use proper grammar. It’s like they ran down a checklist of black stereotypes, and just did the opposite thinking it would make a fleshed-out character. He’s also astonishingly racist - he makes offensive statements at parties and has nothing but disgust on his face when he sees the next-door couple.

Turner makes a nice foil for Chris, the rap loving, easygoing Berkeley grad who must have trouble standing up straight with all the white liberal guilt on his shoulders like a politically correct Atlas. Whenever he tries to confront his new neighbor, he quickly backs down and walks away with his tail between his legs. Even when he says to his wife that black men constantly disapprove of his their relationship, he whispers it as if telling an offensive joke in a crowded restaurant. Eventually he fights back, and the story escalates into from the tense to the ridiculous.

Most of the film’s positive aspects can be attributed to Jackson. He has what physicians refer to as “the crazy eyes.” His facial expressions run the gamut of craziness: he’s insanely happy, insanely angry, insanely contemplative, insanely surprised (often with a tinge of insanely angry), and - this is the best one - insanely crazy. He’s the kind of person you’d never want to hear the words “good night” from because coming from him they give off the strong implication that morning isn’t coming. Even if Chris wasn’t such a spineless wuss I doubt he could possibly stare Abel down.

Neil LaBute, an accomplished writer and playwright renowned for creating stories about misogynistic men who slowly reveal their sadistic tendencies, directed the film, but you’d never know it. Had LaBute written the script, “Lakeview Terrace” might have gently unfolded, gradually mounting tension until you suddenly found yourself in a horrific situation.

For a time, this film is interesting; the first two acts let Chris and Abel’s little turf war escalate as a forest fire inches nearer (a blatant nod to “Do The Right Thing’s” heat wave), but the final 45 minutes are pure B-movie nonsense. Abel’s motivation for his racial hate is absurd and harkens back to a time when racism was socially acceptable rather than the subtler way it still exists. Some of the things he does to mess with the couple are just plain ridiculous; for instance, he mails a video of a clearly-struggling Chris unwittingly receiving a lap dance from a stripper at a bachelor party to Lisa, as if seeing her husband pinned to the ground by three cops and forced to let a stripper dance for him will lead to a divorce or even sow doubt. Once Jackson starts yelling things like “I’m the police! You have to do what I say!” it’s all over.

This film was probably doomed from the start. Even its trailer veered so close to camp I didn’t know when I went in whether I’d get a black comedy or a thriller. After seeing it, I still don’t. The idea of being terrorized by a cop is interesting, as is a study of modern racism. However, the script is constantly at odds with the director; LaBute wants to take his time and let the hatred simmer, while the script thinks it’s adding a twist to race study by making the black person racist instead of the white guy. It strives to be a thriller version of “Do The Right Thing,” but instead has all the heavy-handedness of the last big racial drama, “Crash.” It’s a bad dissection of race relations because everyone conforms to some sort of stereotype, and it’s a bad thriller because all the lines got big laughs from the audience I was in when they should have been gripping their seats.